


shooting the moon

by knightswatch



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Getting to Know Each Other, God!Yahaba, Historical Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mortal!Kyoutani, Transformation, True Names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8787229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightswatch/pseuds/knightswatch
Summary: In many ways, Kentarou supposes he must have been an easy choice for a sacrifice. After a wildfire ravaged through the fields that surrounded his small village, destroying crops and even outlying homes, it became the consensus that the gods must have been outraged with them.Blood is the only thing that appeases an angry god.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks, as always, to Kie for being my patient and wonderful beta. I'd be useless without them honestly.

In many ways, Kentarou supposes he must have been an easy choice for a sacrifice. After a wildfire ravaged through the fields that surrounded his small village, destroying crops and even outlying homes, it became the consensus that the gods must have been outraged with them.

Blood is the only thing that appeases an angry god, and Kentarou himself barely has anything that could be called a home. He works for Ukai, the smith and sometimes sheriff, for the cost of a bed made up in the corner of his shed and enough money to feed himself. He likes it too, working for Ukai. It's better than before, when he was moving from town to town and stealing enough food and supplies to get by.

Still, people look at him like he's a wild thing, even if Ukai seems to have a soft spot. That soft spot isn't enough to keep a dozen hands from pulling Kentarou out of his bed in the middle of the night, surrounded by burning torches and angry faces that blur because of the sleep still clinging to his vision. He stumbles forward when they shove him out to the edge of the forest, barefoot and confused, a red rope binding his hands together behind him. It's ceremonial, but it also keeps Kentarou from being able to fight back.

He could get away, he's sure, if only he had the use of his hands.

Another shove makes him trip, and he falls to his knees in the middle of a stone circle that rests just inside the forest. Kentarou doesn't know the last time it was used— never in the two years he's been living here. He sits up slowly, looking around, trying to register the faces of the people around him, searching for help.

It's a small blessing that he doesn't see Ukai gathered among them, but he doesn't see any hints of regret or mercy either. Kentarou struggles against the ropes holding him, trying to push himself back to his feet. If he can't fight like he wants to, maybe he can run. He can get far enough into the forest that they won't be able to find him or kill him. He pushes himself into a crouch, sucking a deep breath into his lungs before standing all the way, taking off deeper into the forest before more hands can grab him and hold him.

It’s too dark to see. Kentarou crashes blindly between the trees, stumbling over roots and stones, feeling where they cut into his exposed feet but refusing to stop. Perhaps he is a wild thing, in the end, but he can't let himself simply lay down and die based on superstition.

The pursuing torches fade into the darkness long before Kentarou stops running, leaning against the thick trunk of an oak and staring up at the canopy. He's deeper into the woods than he would dare go even in the day, and far past the singed and burnt outskirts that mark the edges of the village. The foliage of the canopy is so thick that no starlight pierces through, and Kentarou sinks once again to his bruised knees. He flexes his arms behind him, but still the crimson ropes don't give. He'll have to find something sharp to use on them in the morning, he decides, trying to settle as comfortably as he can on the ground.

He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep like this, bound and lost and injured. There's a cut on his cheek leaking blood from running into a branch that he tries to wipe clean on the shoulder of his nightshirt, and with the state of his feet, walking far in the morning will be all but impossible. The best he can do until morning comes is rest and try to decide what his next move might be. He can't go back, that much is clear. He'll have to find his way through the forest the best he can until he meets up with another village. If he's lucky, he'll come across the cabin of a woodcutter or a huntsman who just might take pity on him and give him proper clothes and a pair of old boots.

Kentarou sighs, his chin resting against his chest as he hangs his head forward. So much for finding a home for himself. He barely feels his eyes starting to slip closed.

 

When he wakes, it's not because of the light now filtering through the canopy above him, or from the dim aching of his legs from falling asleep on his knees. No, he wakes to a face shoved uncomfortably close to his own, wide brown eyes staring at him curiously, and thin fingers prodding at his side. Kentarou blinks, leaning back so sharply from the unexpected sight that he unbalances himself and falls backward into the leaves behind him. He groans from the surprise, trying to shift his arms underneath him and sit up once more.

Strangely, when he looks up, the forest seems different than when he fell asleep. Perhaps it was due to the darkness, but the trees didn't seem quite so ancient; their gnarled branches seem to reach to impossible heights and the nearest trunk is three times as thick as Kentarou's body, it's roots spanning a circle of at least a hundred feet around him. There are wildflowers too, popping up between the fallen leaves despite the season being wrong for them.

"Good morning to you too." The voice is amused, and Kentarou lifts his head to glare at his would-be attacker. It's a young man, crouched a few feet away from where Kentarou fell asleep with a slight smile on his face. His hair is a bright silver, like captured starlight and he’s wearing what seems to be a traditional kimono in a light green shade, though that’s not the strange thing about him.

The strange thing, at least as far as Kentarou can see, are the perked, furry ears on the top of his head. The outer fur is the same gleaming silver as his hair, and the insides are white. They look remarkably soft, Kentarou thinks, before shaking himself and sitting up. “What the fuck is going on?”

Courtesy has never been one of Kentarou’s strongest suits. The eared-boy huffs, rolling his eyes and leaning his chin on one hand, looking Kentarou over with that same amused smile on his face. He’s crouched on the ground, his feet in tall sandals and balanced on the roots of the tree. “I’m collecting you, though this isn’t exactly what I was expecting.”

Kentarou opens his mouth to repeat his question, but the eared-boy shakes his head with a little roll of his eyes, snapping his fingers. The ropes around Kentarou’s arms shiver and abruptly vanish, and Kentarou quickly closes his mouth again. "Usually people send me _spirits_ , not mortals."

Using his regained hands, Kentarou pushes to his feet, hissing slightly as he does. Still, he adopts a stance with his fists raised, prepared to fight if he needs to. Clearly this boy is insane, though the ears twitching on his head like he's actually using them to listen to Kentarou are surprisingly realistic. His smile widens, and it's then that Kentarou notices his teeth are sharp; pointed almost like they've been filed that way. He stands as well, and with the added height of the sandals he's taller than Kentarou, something that he finds strangely irritating.

"What are you doing?" He takes a step closer, head tilted curiously, and despite himself, Kentarou shuffles backward in response, narrowing his eyes. The teeth, he has to admit, are off-putting. Still, Kentarou doesn't know how to explain the answer to that question, so he clears his throat, trying his best to think.

"What do you mean you're _collecting_ me?" He asks instead, his voice growling out from between his teeth. The boy stops, standing up a little straighter like he's surprised by the question, blinking his eyes.

"You were a sacrifice," his head tilts to the side, holding his hand out. Kentarou shifts slightly lower in his stance, not sure what to expect. In the boy's hand is the same coil of red rope that held Kentarou's arms, and he stares at it in confusion. "Though it seems someone forgot to do the actual sacrificing part, I suppose."

"I ran away," Kentarou frowns, his nails digging into his palms now. He doesn't like where this conversation is going, or the strange atmosphere of the forest around him, or this weird boy and his clever eyes. "I'm fast, so no one caught me."

"You must remember your name then." Again, the boy steps forward, his hand dropping to his side once more. The rope is gone from it, but not on the ground next to him. His eyes are bright with interest, almost too much of it, and his tongue touches one of his sharp teeth. "What is it?"

The question makes Kentarou feel strange like the answer wants to leap from his mouth. He clamps it shut tightly and shakes his head back and forth, refusing, though he's not entirely sure why he feels the need to. The boy's ears droop slightly, like a disappointed dog.

"Unfortunate," he sighs. "You can call me Yahaba. I suppose I'll have to think of something to call you."

"What's going on?" Kentarou asks, more quietly this time. Yahaba smiles, hopping off of the root he was walking along and bowing his head slightly.

"I'm the god they meant to gift you to." He turns slightly, and Kentarou notices the thick, fluffy tail protruding from his back. It's silver, tipped white at the end like that of a fox, and there's a quiver and an unstrung bow hanging from his back. "You'll be serving me from now on."

"What if I say no?" He's certain he doesn't want to serve someone strange and irritating like Yahaba. At that, Yahaba laughs, looking over his shoulder and shrugging.

"You don't really have that option. Come along, I'll take you home with me." He beckons for Kentarou to follow, and he does without thinking. It's only once they’ve continued on into the forest after passing the tree Kentarou was resting against that he realizes he's obeying because he was ordered to, and that makes him grit his teeth together in irritation. He tries to stop walking only to find that he can't. The most he can do is slow his pace to the point where he's barely moving, making Yahaba glance back at him with a little roll of his eyes.

He asks several more questions of Kentarou as they walk; where he’s from, what his family is like, if he’s married. Most of them Kentarou declines to answer, or responds to with a grunt because it seems to annoy Yahaba, and because for the most part his answers aren’t that interesting. He doesn’t have a family, or a home, and he’s never even been close enough to someone for marriage to even really cross his mind.

Really, Kentarou can’t imagine his life being of much interest to someone like a god. Every so often, when Kentarou gives an answer that Yahaba finds unsatisfying, his eye twitches at the corner, and that alone makes Kentarou nearly smile.

“So, what’d you do to make the village want to sacrifice you?” Yahaba asks, with the same casual air as all of his other questions. Kentarou frowns, turning away from his probing gaze.

“I didn’t do shit,” Kentarou hisses, his nose wrinkling as his temper catches up with him. “It’s what _you_ did!”

“What I did?” Yahaba blinks, and there’s a slight frown on his face, like he doesn’t understand the concept.

Maybe he doesn’t, Kentarou isn’t sure. “The fires and shit. People think you’re pissed off and that’s why everything is a mess.”

“That’s not my fault,” Yahaba sniffs, shaking his head. “Mortals are so hasty, really. It’s going to rain tomorrow, they’ll be fine.”

Kentarou never thought he’d want to punch a god across the jaw, and yet here he is, with one hand clenched into a fist, his muscles already tensing up for it.

There’s a break through the thick trees ahead, and what looks like a wall settled amongst the tall trunks. Kentarou squints his eyes, trying to make out what’s beyond the high white walls. He glances at Yahaba, one eyebrow raised in question, only to find Yahaba grinning at him. “Welcome home!”

He skips ahead, feet nimble across the roots and rocks, leaving Kentarou to follow along slowly behind him.

 

Yahaba’s home, it turns out, is a mansion settled behind the tall walls. It spans over several buildings and is surrounded by wildflowers and smaller trees, the walls of each building a pristine white topped with sloping red roofs.

It’s nicer than any place Kentarou has ever been allowed to step foot, for certain. The air seems quieter, though not abnormally so and, to Kentarou’s surprise, the first courtyard they enter actually has people in it.

There are three of them, all young men. The tallest has hair that sticks almost straight up, like the leaves of a root vegetable. He slumps slightly, like he’s trying to hide from his own size, though there’s a smile on his face when he sees Yahaba. Next to him, the boy is shorter with inky black hair that hangs nearly to his chin and he hardly looks awake at all. He’s leaning into the tallest boy’s side, his kimono slumping off his shoulders like he was too lazy to tie it properly. Kentarou can just make out the top lines of what seems to be a tattoo on the front of his shoulder.

The third stares at Yahaba with a nervous air about him, olive hair tied back at the nape of his neck and freckles dusting his cheeks and his collarbones. He bows to the both of them, a motion that the tallest boy quickly repeats, almost knocking his companion over in his haste.

“Yuutarou,” he grumbles, eyes fluttering open to glare. Yuutarou pauses, rubbing the back of his neck and holding out his other hand to steady the shorter boy.

“Sorry,” he answers quickly, his hand sliding off the boy’s shoulder in a lingering sort of way.

“Is- is this the new spirit, Yahaba-sama?” The third ventures after a nervous glance at the other two, and Yahaba nods his head.

“He’s… something like that.” He glances at Kentarou, then nods his head at each of the spirits in order. “This is Yuutarou, Akira, and Tadashi. They’ll show you around and if you have any questions, I’m sure they’ll be able to help you.”

Kentarou huffs, not quite sure how much he actually buys into that. Still, Yahaba, gives the three of them a smile that even Kentarou has to admit seems warm. Yuutarou and Tadashi both seem uncertain of him, and Kentarou can’t read much of anything from Akira’s face. Even when he speaks, he doesn’t sound like his question is of much interest to him personally. “What’s his name?”

“Oh,” Yahaba blinks, his ears twitching on top of his head. Kentarou wonders if they do that a lot. “Kyoken will do for now, I think.”

Kentarou feels strange hearing the name, perhaps because it feels so close to his own that it’s not entirely unfamiliar. Still, Yahaba’s meaning isn’t lost on him, and Kentarou bristles despite himself. “What kinda name is that?”

“Do you have one you would prefer I use?” Yahaba shoots back, smiling when Kentarou glares at him. Yuutarou clears his throat, his fingers tapping nervously against one another.

“Does— does that mean he’s _not_ a spirit?” He asks, frowning. Kentarou supposes it must not be common for mortals to blunder their way here, after all.

“He’s a mortal, still.” Yahaba tilts his head, his ears going slightly flat against his scalp. “I’m still figuring out what to do with him, but until then, just treat him like you would anyone else.”

“Alright,” Yuutarou nods, and if anything the news makes him seem more skittish around Kentarou already. Still, it’s nothing that Kentarou isn’t used to; he’s hardly got a long record of making friends out of strangers. Yuutarou hesitates for a beat before waving Kentarou after him, leading him on a tour of the buildings. Akira and Tadashi go along with them, because apparently neither of them have anything better to do.

“So, you remember everything?” Tadashi asks the question popping out of his mouth so suddenly that even he seems surprised by it. Kentarou nods his head, but something in his expression must be intimidating, because Tadashi shies away from saying anything else, his head sinking between his shoulders.

“But you don’t?” He asks after a beat, glancing at Tadashi and then Akira since he’s the only one who doesn’t seem to be afraid of Kentarou. Akira shakes his head slowly, his hair sliding into his eyes only to be quickly brushed back.

“Nothing.” He doesn’t sound particularly sad about it.

“It’s probably not that different,” Kentarou grumbles, not sure what they would even want to know. It’s not like he led a very interesting life, and it certainly isn’t a topic that Kentarou is fond of talking about. Still, for all he knows, they might have been dead for a hundred years. He can feel the interest from all three of them, even Akira who seems most reluctant to actually show it, and he searches his brain for anything that would make a decent story to share.

“I had a dog for awhile,” he grumbles, losing focus on whatever they’re meant to be showing him in the expansive hall. He shuts his eyes for a second, though it’s not hard to picture the small mutt he raised for a few years. “She was all white, kinda scruffy. My sister named her Mochi.”

“You have a sister?” Yuutarou asks, and Kentarou blinks his eyes open quickly. He frowns one hand clenching into a fist at his side. He almost wants to shake his head and deny it, as foolish as it sounds.

“I did,” he grumbles, turning away from their prying stares and hoping that’s the end of the questions he gets. Yuutarou opens his mouth to ask something else, only to have Akira elbow him in the side, making him yelp instead.

“We generally don’t eat in here,” Tadashi coughs, picking up with the tour once again. “It’s usually only used if Yahaba-sama has guests. There’s a small dining room where we all eat together, most days.”

Kentarou nods his head slightly, glad for the distraction. “You three eat together?”

His question comes out softly, and both Yuutarou and Tadashi look slightly surprised by it. Kentarou can’t blame them, exactly. He’s hardly been the most vocal through the whole tour they’ve given him. Still, Akira nods his head. “With Yahaba-sama, usually. He helps Tadashi cook sometimes, too.”

Kentarou frowns at that, surprised by it. His first impressions of Yahaba could hardly be called flattering, for certain, and Kentarou is taken aback by the thought that he does more than use these three as personal servants; managers of his house and little else. Akira seems to be the only one to read the thought on Kentarou's face because he shakes his head slightly. "He's not so bad."

Yuutarou seems to be muffling a laugh at Akira's dry assessment of the god, though Kentarou himself can't figure out why. Tadashi rolls his eyes at the two of them before smiling once more at Kentarou. "I can show you where your room will be if you'd like."

Kentarou nods in agreement and Tadashi leaves the other two to the task of bickering by themselves. When the door shuts and Tadashi is leading him across the small lawn back to the residence they showed Kentarou earlier, he looks back with a small smile. "Yahaba-sama really does a lot to take care of us."

"By using you as servants without your names or memories?" Kentarou raises an eyebrow, but Tadashi's smile doesn't falter in the face of his bad attitude. It's another small surprise because he seemed to be the most skittish around Kentarou out of the three of them. It's not, of course, that Kentarou is trying to be _intentionally_ intimidating, but he's used to people seeming uncomfortable around him, or even afraid of him.

"No spirit has either of those things, and other gods are much harsher on the souls that they're given than Yahaba-sama is," Tadashi pulls the door open, hairs starting to escape from the loose tail at the back of his head. "Yahaba-sama treats us like his family, though."

There's something in Tadashi's tone; a level of respect that borders on adoration that seems totally foreign to Kentarou. The only authority he's ever spent much of his time with was Ukai, and even then he's sure he didn't feel half the level of emotion that he can hear in Tadashi's voice. Ukai was kind to him, of course, in a way Kentarou had long since stopped expecting from other people, but Kentarou still only considered him to be something of a mentor, or perhaps a generous friend. Tadashi smiles, nodding at a smaller door inside the building. Kentarou was certain the last time they entered, it only contained three rooms, but now when he looks around he can see four doors all neatly closed.

This building, like all the ones Kentarou has been in so far, are strictly of traditional construction, with tatami floors and shoji doors. The buildings all seem to be made of the same pure white stone that feels strange when Kentarou runs his fingers gently across it. Perhaps marble, though he never had the chance himself to see anything so fine, so he can't truly make the comparison on his own.

He slides open the door to his own room, aware that he has no shoes to set to the side like Tadashi does. Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised, though he is, to find it neatly furnished already, with small burning lamps on the walls and a soft looking green futon in the middle of the floor. There's a tall wardrobe in the corner as well, and hanging neatly from it is a kimono that matches the ones already worn by Tadashi and the other two, not nearly as fine nor intricate as Yahaba's own, it's made in the same shade of green silk. Tadashi, standing in the doorway, bows and quickly turns to leave. Kentarou clears his throat, taking a step forward and touching the material gently. It's soft and smooth under his fingers, and it feels like much too nice a thing for even a god to be giving him. "Um, I've never put one of these on."

"Oh," Tadashi pauses, his fingers curled lightly around the door. "I can help with that. We should probably have you bathe first, too."

"Right," Kentarou grumbles, aware that he has dirt and blood clinging to him from his mad dash through the forest, and likely soot from working the forge before that. He's sure they showed him a bathhouse of some kind, though he's not certain he could find it himself now. 

Tadashi gestures with one hand, stepping back into his sandals. "It's this way." 

The bath Tadashi draws for him is hot and soothing, and once he's sure Kentarou is settled comfortably in the water, Tadashi takes his torn nightclothes and leaves him to soak. Kentarou's muscles are sore in places he wouldn't have thought possible, and the bath is deep enough and long enough for him to sink into the water down to his ears, only the tops of his knees peeking out of the water. He'll have to scrub himself clean, but for the moment he closes his eyes and just enjoys the warmth and the slight smell of flowers from whatever soaps Tadashi dumped into the water.

He wonders if he could even stand to live this way. The house, and the happy spirits; it all seems _too_ perfect to Kentarou, like there must be a catch waiting to ruin it for him.

The catch will probably Yahaba himself, Kentarou thinks, drawing abstract shapes in the water with the tips of his fingers. Besides, Kentarou has never really wanted a place like this to settle before; a manor owned by some rich lord that will inevitably treat him like a mutt. He isn't eager about the idea of letting Yahaba fix a collar around his throat.

 

Kentarou weathers several days without catching much of Yahaba's attention before anything really happens. Tadashi turns out to be the most helpful in showing him what jobs they're expected to perform around the house. It seems that Akira shirks working whenever possible, and Yuutarou is too scared of him to do anything more than mumble simple, broken instructions that often leave Kentarou more confused than he started.

Still, the tasks aren't difficult ones, and it's while he's standing in the central courtyard sweeping away stray leaves that the gates clatter open on their own, banging so loudly that Kentarou startles and drops the broom in his hands. He picks it up, glaring at the gates and wondering if it was just some kind of bizarre, spirit world wind that knocked them open.

He doesn't have that kind of luck, it seems. The man who walks through them is someone Kentarou can easily identify as another god. Rather than a simple kimono like Yahaba, he's dressed in full armor, with a pair of blades strapped firmly to his hips and a helmet tucked under his arm. There's an ease to the way he moves that Kentarou has only seen in people with training in martial arts, and when he looks at Kentarou, his brown eyes are sharp, amused. He smiles, and Kentarou thinks he's never met anyone who looks more like a predator.

"Oh! You must be Yahaba-chan's new plaything!"

There's an aura of _power_ around him that makes Kentarou's teeth ache. He continues smiling like he's expecting some kind of answer from Kentarou, who only backs away with a wary glare. Drawn by the noise and ready to yell at Kentarou for it, probably, Yahaba walks out into the courtyard himself. He starts with a glare in Kentarou's direction, but when he sees the other god, a smile lights on his face. "Oikawa-san! I didn't expect you to be here."

"I thought I would drop in and surprise my favorite forest god," Oikawa's smile loses some of its edge and Kentarou notes with a hint of disgust the way Yahaba's fox-like tail twists behind him in obvious delight. Gripping the broom so tight he's liable to break it, Kentarou makes to stalk off to sweep something else. Oikawa sniffs the air, Kentarou assumes in offense, but he laughs. "You have a mortal hanging around?"

Both Kentarou and Yahaba freeze. Yahaba's ears twitch uncertainly on top of his head, and Kentarou notes the half step he takes like he's planning on putting himself between Oikawa and Kentarou. The thought almost makes him laugh, but when he turns to look at Oikawa again, he seems surprised by the small gesture. "People tried to sacrifice him to me, it seems."

"How unusual," Oikawa tilts his head to the side, tapping his chin. "Did you send them a tornado?"

"There was a fire," Kentarou grumbles, his head sinking between his shoulders. His feet have healed, quicker than he would have thought possible even, but he can still feel the irritating burn of the rope tied around his wrists. "They thought he was pissed off or something."

"That's tricky, Yahaba-chan," Oikawa nods his head, agreeing with something Yahaba didn't even voice, though he nods in agreement as well. "Keeping mortals as pets can be dangerous."

"I'm looking after him," Yahaba sighs, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing at Kentarou. He hardly thinks it could be called that; every time he's been left alone in a room with Yahaba, the two of them have managed to get into a fight. It's resulted in at least one broken tea set that Kentarou smashed after being scolded about the proper way to pour Yahaba's tea for the dozenth time, and several doors slammed so hard Yuutarou had to come later and repair them. Kentarou helped each time, feeling bad later for losing his temper so easily.

He doesn't feel bad for fighting with Yahaba, however.

"Don't let him go wandering off," Oikawa advises, and he and Yahaba begin walking inside together. Yahaba gestures for Kentarou to follow them with a slight snap of his fingers, and Kentarou goes along reluctantly, feeling very much like Yahaba's untrained dog.

The two of them wind up sitting at the same table they use for meals, with Kentarou hovering awkwardly to the side, wondering what he's supposed to be doing. Akira comes in with a pot of tea and two cups on a tray, though Kentarou didn't spread any news that Oikawa was there. He kneels to pour it, and Oikawa gives him a warm smile. "It's been too long, Akira-chan. You must be napping when I come to visit."

Akira shrugs, but he seems amused, and Oikawa gives him a small pat on the arm before he goes.

"You take good care of all of them," he observes, sipping his tea without a thought for the heat of it. Yahaba flushes at the comment though it's clear he tries to hide it.

"He still has all of his memories, though he refuses to share his name with me." Yahaba speaks as if Kentarou isn't in the room at all, and Oikawa nods his head with a hum, giving Kentarou a slight glance.

"A smart one, then, I suppose." Oikawa sets his own cup down carefully. "It took me a decade to get Iwa-chan to tell me his."

"Well, I suppose it's up to you what to do with him." Oikawa's smile is firmly in place, and Kentarou has one hand clenched in a fist at his side, feeling the frustrated twitch in his muscles. Yahaba seems to notice because he tosses Kentarou a slight glare over his shoulder-- a silent admonishment not to embarrass him. "He's still mortal, so you could always just send him back."

Yahaba nods his head, and Kentarou opens his mouth to argue that that's exactly what Yahaba should have done days ago. Yahaba beats him to the punch, though. "I'm concerned sending him back will only lead to them actually killing him."

Oikawa nods his head in agreement. "It certainly isn't impossible."

"I can take care of myself," Kentarou grumbles, feeling heat flare up at the back of his neck. It's not as if he plans to try living in the same village after all of this. Oikawa doesn't spare Kentarou a glance, acting almost as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"It's just as likely they'll try to sacrifice him again," Oikawa shrugs when he speaks, and Yahaba sighs, the breath falling lightly out of his mouth.

"What a pain." He sets his tea down gently, rubbing the back of his neck. "Did Iwaizumi give you so much trouble?"

"He wasn't exactly _happy_ about being here," Oikawa taps his chin, laughing softly. "Though that was a little different, I suppose. I plucked him straight from the battlefield."

Yahaba nods, as if that's something perfectly normal to do. Kentarou frowns. "Why?"

"I'm sorry?" Oikawa blinks, turning to face Kentarou.

"Why do that? If he was there because he wanted to fight..." His fingers twist nervously, catching a stray thread from the seam of the kimono and turning it around and around one of his fingers.

"Because he was dying and I didn't want him to." His eyes rake over Kentarou before he turns back to Yahaba, and Kentarou can't help but wonder exactly what Oikawa sees. "There was something about him... I didn't just want to claim his spirit. I wanted him alive."

There's a touch of pink at Yahaba's cheeks as he nods his head. "You can return to your duties now, Kyoken."

"Kyoken," Oikawa repeats with a laugh, his long fingers wrapping once again around his cup. "How fitting."

Suddenly, Kentarou hates the name much more than he did before, making his way out of the dining room and back to the courtyard, dragging the broom behind him with a grumble.

The seasons in the spirit world don't seem to make any sense. Some days, the trees that hang over the courtyard will be fresh with green buds and new growth, but today they've all shed leaves of vibrant reds and yellows over the ground, meaning Kentarou has to do his best to clear them from the neat stone paths that connect each separate building.

It's not that he minds the work terribly; he's been forced to do far more humiliating things in the name of a warm bed or food for the night, but no matter how much respect Yahaba treats him with, Kentarou can't shake his distaste.

Yahaba is, at best, frustrating for Kentarou to be around. At the worst, and more frequently, he makes Kentarou contemplate all the ways he could try to escape a god with his stupid tasks and his probing eyes.

He looks at Kentarou like he's trying to solve him, and that more than anything makes Kentarou want to spend as little time around him as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

“Where are you from?” Yahaba asks, if only because he’s curious enough to actually want to know the answer. The steam from his tea wafts through the air before Yahaba leans forward to blow it away, keeping his eyes trained on Kyoken’s face as he processes the question.

He responds to every inquiry Yahaba makes of him with the same confused, suspicious look each time—like he can’t figure out why Yahaba would want to know any of this. In a way, Yahaba supposes that makes sense. Kyoken assumes, probably, that because he’s a mortal his life wouldn’t be very interesting to a god like Yahaba. Not that Kyoken seems to have any actual respect for Yahaba or his position. 

Maybe he assumes that about everyone. But, for Yahaba, the details of his life are all fascinating. He cares for his spirits, of course, but Kyoken is something totally new, and the novelty of it hasn’t worn off for Yahaba yet.

“It’s just a small village,” Kyoken answers after a minute, looking away from Yahaba’s prying gaze with a shrug of his shoulders. He’s tight-lipped about almost everything from his past, and when Yahaba tries to push him for more information, it usually ends with him being snapped at just before Kyoken storms off. Usually, Tadashi or Yuutarou find him after and try to soothe his temper.

His anger is a novelty as well. Yahaba can’t recall the last time anyone dared raise their voice to him. He might be a minor deity, but he’s had luck making the right allies, and his own temper has enough of a reputation to take care of the rest. It’s true that Yahaba is a simple forest god - or at least mostly true. He’s also a god of storms, and that tempestuousness has served him in more than one quarrel.

“Tell me about it,” Yahaba prods, reaching for a cube of sugar to melt in his tea. He doesn’t usually drink it very sweet, but stirring it in until the sugar dissolves give his hands something to do while Kyoken chews on his words. They’re alone, at least for the moment, something that’s become oddly difficult to achieve despite the fact that Yahaba only has three spirits. He’s had others in the past, usually the souls of lost children or teenagers who fell so deep into the forest they couldn’t find their way out.

They’ve fallen, over the centuries, and Yahaba rarely keeps more than a few around the manor. He isn’t powerful enough to risk trying to control more, and even the most loyal of spirits can become unstable, given enough time.

“There isn’t that much to say,” Kyoken’s voice starts out gruff, but when Yahaba looks up he notices that his shoulders seem to have relaxed a degree, and he’s not gazing at the lacquered top of the table with quite so much intensity. “It was pretty much just a Yakuza hideout.”

“What does that mean?” Yahaba leans forward, his ears twitching slightly. Kyoken’s lips almost twitch upward at Yahaba’s eagerness.

“It’s like a gang,” Kyoken answers, and when Yahaba still tilts his head in confusion, he shakes his own with a small sigh. “It doesn’t matter. They’re not nice people.”

“And that’s where you grew up?” Yahaba wishes getting information out of him were a little easier, though Kyoken shrugs his shoulders in response. There’s a flicker in his eyes, darting toward the corners of the room like he’s contemplating his best escape route once more.

“For awhile.” His answer is almost diplomatic, and Yahaba hums, taking a slow sip of his tea now. He’s learned, at least, that the boy had a sister and didn’t grow up with much involvement from either of his parents. When Yahaba doesn’t spring another question on him, Kyoken’s eyes narrow further, though he settles back into his seat. “Why do you wanna know so much about me?”

Yahaba sets his tea down slowly, rolling the question around in his mind. He’s not sure why himself, except that Kyoken’s answers present something new to him, something he hasn’t heard before. He’s spent some time looking in on the mortal world, of course, but he hardly spends his days watching over the lives of individual humans.

Only now does he wonder if perhaps it’s something that he should be doing.

“Spirits don’t have memories to share,” Yahaba answers, folding his hands in his lap and trying to prevent his tail from twitching with tension. It’s a bad habit, one that Kyoken seems to aggravate more than most. Yahaba is generally known for being difficult to read, and he’d like to remain that way, even if he can’t help but feeling that Kyoken sees things he’d like to hide. “I’ve never had the chance to hear so much about one mortal's life.”

Kyoken hums like he’s not convinced and Yahaba has to admit that he finds his own answer to be lacking. Still, he doubts he’ll find any answers with Kyoken being so stingy about his memories.

After a beat Kyoken sighs, looking down at the table and drawing his finger over the surface, leaving a smeared print behind it. “I didn’t know my dad.”

It takes all of Yahaba’s self-control not to twitch his ears in interest. Something about his body language reminds Yahaba not of prey, something he’s used to seeing from new spirits who feel cornered by being so close to him, but a trapped predator. One wrong move, Yahaba thinks, and Kyoken could easily lunge for his throat. Calling him ‘mad dog’ was half in an effort to goad him into sharing his name, something that would allow Yahaba to properly claim his spirit, but in the strangest of ways, it seems to fit him.

“My mom was a prostitute, and once my sister was old enough,” Kyoken pauses, shaking his head like he’s drawing himself out of the memory. This, Yahaba does not need to ask for clarification on. “So, we left.”

Yahaba wants to ask, strangely, how old Kyoken was, though he’s not sure the figure would really mean anything to him. Yahaba’s lifespan doesn’t depend on the matter of years, and no matter how old he grows, he won’t die. Instead, he’ll be born again, and one of his households will be there to see him through the education of his duties once more.

That is if Yahaba ever manages to find a vessel for himself. He’s young still, though plenty of gods meet with abrupt, violent ends.

“You were young?” Yahaba asks because it at least paints a clearer picture for him than any number will. Kyoken shrugs his shoulders, chuckling.

“I’m still young.” He speaks as though he’s not amongst the dead, Yahaba notices. It’s an odd habit, though Kyoken is still very much alive. Yahaba can hear his heartbeat—the moments it flutters or speeds up, how it slows when he’s relaxed like he is now.

In the beginning, Yahaba found it almost distracting. Spirits don’t have heartbeats, of course. They don’t have bodies made of flesh at all. 

Yahaba’s fingers wrap around his cup once more, thumb running over the rim. He’s not sure of what to say.

Kyoken still eyes him like a wary predator, and something about the yellow glint of his eyes catches Yahaba’s interest for a moment, but Kyoken quickly looks back down to the smudges he’s left on the once pristine top of the table. “That all?”

He’s been insisting on these meetings, time spent with just the two of them since Kyoken arrived. He does this for every spirit he takes in—it helps them feel at home like they’re members of the house, not just servants to carry out Yahaba’s bidding, but mostly Yahaba has spent his time with Kyoken trying to cajole information from his lips.

This is the first time they’ve gone all the way through without Kyoken storming out and nearly breaking the door in his haste to escape. Yahaba inclines his head slightly, aware of the smile that he can’t quite wipe from his lips. “For today.”

Kyoken rolls his eyes, pushing himself back to his feet. He doesn’t bow before he leaves—it’s a habit that Yahaba hasn’t quite been able to train into him yet. Yahaba remains in his spot, sipping his tea.

For once, the door slides shut softly behind Kyoken.

 

Try as he might, Yahaba can’t avoid spending time with other gods forever. Still, he can’t leave an unclaimed mortal to wander about his home with no protection, so when he steps into the small shrine that lays in one corner of the grounds with Akira to carefully tend to it, Kyoken is there. He’s an arms-length away, with a glare etched into his face. 

He looks dubiously around the shrine, taking it in by degrees. Typically, Yahaba only allows his most trusted spirits to step foot in it, but today he has no choice but to make an exception. He holds out his hand, facing Kyoken, only to sigh when he refuses to move. “You have to be holding onto me to travel along.”

“I don’t understand why I can’t stay here,” he growls, and perhaps Yahaba is imagining it, but it sounds like a true growl—like rage rippling through the throat of a wild animal. Yahaba shakes his head, taking a step toward Kyoken and grabbing his wrist.

He’s no fan of being late, and he certainly doesn’t want a lecture from Oikawa on the matter today.

“Because it wouldn’t be safe,” Yahaba instructs, pulling Kyoken with him carefully to the center of the shrine. Kyoken looks up, blinking his eyes slowly, and Yahaba takes the rare moment to actually look at his face without being scolded or avoided.

Having known too many gods to find him _handsome_ or _beautiful_ , Yahaba instead finds himself thinking that Kyoken’s looks are quite rugged. His jaw is mostly square, cutting a strong line, because of all the time he spends gritting his teeth. There’s a crook in his nose, likely from having had it broken at least once in his life, and a small scar that cuts through his right eyebrow that Yahaba hadn’t noticed before.

And he can’t help but think he could make all the small imperfections he sees vanish with the touch of his fingers.

He almost reaches a hand to touch Kyoken’s face, mostly out of curiosity, perhaps to straighten his nose or remove the scar from the corner of his mouth, but Kyoken looks away from the ceiling back to Yahaba, and his frown returns.

“How does this work?” He asks, and Yahaba clears his throat before giving an answer.

“You’ll hold onto me, and I’ll carry us to the higher plane.” There’s no more clear answer to give, so Yahaba ignores the curious, confused look on Kyoken’s face to instead pull the mortal’s arms around his waist, securing his hold.

Kyoken’s chest expands against his, and it’s only when he releases the air does Yahaba realize he was taking a deep breath. His heart is beating fast, like the frantic thrumming of a bird’s wings, and Yahaba slides his fingers along Kyoken’s arms, hoping to be reassuring.

“It won’t hurt, don’t worry. I’ve done this plenty of times before.” With that, he closes his eyes, holding onto Kyoken’s elbows with both of his hands. It hardly takes a moment of his focus before there’s a light breeze, and light wrapping around the two of them. Kyoken jerks slightly in Yahaba’s hold, probably out of surprise, and Yahaba tightens his arms around him, just enough to try and be reassuring.

For Yahaba, there’s a slight tug in his stomach, a sensation that he’s used to before they’ve arrived at the higher planes. Kyoken, on the other hand, looks green, and he doesn’t immediately drop his arms from around Yahaba’s midsection, eyes screwed tightly shut. Yahaba can’t help the urge he has to laugh, the sound blowing over the top of Kyoken’s head, ruffling his hair slightly.

“We’re here,” he says, after Kyoken clings to him for another moment. His eyes open, blinking and looking around, pulling himself away from Yahaba quickly. There’s a stain of red over his cheeks, and for some reason the sight of Kyoken blushing makes Yahaba feel oddly giddy.

He’d like to see more of it, he thinks. He pulls Kyoken gently out of his own shrine, and down the winding path that leads away from the other shrines that allow access to the main building. Inside, there’s a bustle of other gods and accompanying servants, as well as a host of higher spirits, their forms strange and twisted. Kyoken eyes them with suspicious interest before Yahaba can scold him that staring is a good way to have one of his eyes plucked out.

“What is all of this?” He pulls his eyes off of a kitsune, bowing to her master with a sly smile curving up on her cheeks, and Yahaba shrugs just a little.

“The higher planes are where gods meet to conduct our business.” Yahaba is unhurried in surveying the room, but Kyoken stands so close that the warmth radiating off of his chest is a distraction. There’s so much to having a human around that Yahaba isn’t used to. “Be sure to stay close to me, and don’t speak to anyone.”

“Why?” Kyoken growls, clearly not intending on obeying Yahaba’s requests blindly. It makes him sigh, just slightly, shaking his head.

“Because if someone less upstanding than myself pries your name out of you, they’ll have a far different use for you than I will,” he gives Kyoken a small glare, hoping that for once his warnings will be taken seriously.

Kyoken glares straight back at him, and for the second time, something about the expression strikes Yahaba as being slightly… odd. He can’t seem to place his finger on why, however, and as quickly as the sensation strikes him it’s gone again. Kyoken huffs, shaking his head after breaking off his stare. “Fine. Not like I want anything to do with _more_ of your kind anyway.”

At that, Yahaba laughs, if only because Kyoken doesn’t realize the truth to his own words. Yahaba, tail twitching in the air behind him, sets off toward the meeting room, hoping to himself that no one takes notice of the human he has neatly in tow. It’s likely too much to ask for, and Yahaba can already feel eyes on his back—people watching Kyoken trail behind him. There’s more than one use for a living human spirit amongst the gods, and Yahaba doesn’t plan to let any of those things happen to the human under his protection.

Still, despite his best efforts, the next time he looks over his shoulder, Kyoken is no longer there. He groans, his ears flattening against his head as he looks around. Any theft of his property won’t be suffered lightly, he just needs to _find_ Kyoken before he can do anything about it.

If Yahaba had a heartbeat himself, he’s sure it would be hammering in his throat. Instead, there’s a buzz of uncomfortable quiet in his ears as he scans the crowd, trying to spot where Kyoken might have wandered off to.

While he doesn’t see Kyoken, Yahaba does notice something odd enough to stand out to him. Aone, the taciturn spirit always following his annoying trickster master around, is standing by himself. There’s a small bubble of space, created by people too uncertain to approach the large man directly. Yahaba is not one of those people, and with his ears still pinned tightly to his scalp, he pushes his way over, eyes narrowed. “Where is he?”

Aone looks down at him with a blink followed by a frown, his nearly nonexistent eyebrows settling low over his eyes. Despite his quiet nature, Yahaba knows that Aone can speak if he chooses to, and the fur along his tail bristles in frustration when his question isn’t answered. “No games, now. I’m betting Futakuchi tried to take something of mine, didn’t he?”

At that, Aone’s eyes dart away to one of the smaller alcoves behind him, one where spirits sometimes congregate while their masters attend to business. Yahaba doesn’t see anyone there, but when it comes to Futakuchi, relying only on what he can see would be a foolish choice. Aone bows to him before shuffling slightly further away and Yahaba can tell why. As he gets more frustrated, there’s a pressure building in the air around him. He can almost taste the electricity that wants to crackle out of him, barely restrained by his will and his good sense.

Usually, it would take Yahaba a moment to pick Futakuchi out of a crowd; the trickster's form is fluid, and he isn't keen on sticking with one for very long. Lately, he's been fond of an almost-human shape, with brown hair parted heavily to one side and eyes that slant upward like a laughing cat. 

He has Kyoken backed toward the corner, though he looks like he's ready to try to fight his way free, no matter what kind of god Futakuchi is. Yahaba doubts he took any steps to properly introduce himself, anyway. Kyoken has a snarl on his face like a scared animal, teeth bared inches away from Futakuchi and his resilient smirk.

"C'mon now. It's awfully rude of you _not_ to tell me your name." Futakuchi's voice is like the slide of a snake over dry rocks, and Yahaba, stopping a foot behind him, clears his throat neatly. Kyoken doesn't look to him like he's expecting any help at all, a fact that almost stings.

Futakuchi turns to smile at Yahaba instead, cocking his head curiously to the side. "So this is your new plaything?"

"He's my charge, yes," Yahaba answers carefully, frowning. Futakuchi bends forward, hands on his hips, examining Kyoken more closely.

"Doesn't look real human, does he?" Futakuchi laughs, and the comment smacks Yahaba as being strange. What about Kyoken doesn't look human?

Kyoken huffs, shoving his way past Futakuchi with a roll of his eyes. "I'm not tellin' any of you my damn name."

He sounds quite settled on it, and something mischievous lights in Futakuchi's eyes. "Aw, he won't tell you either?"

Yahaba shrugs. He's not sure anymore what he would even do with Kyoken's name if he had it. Losing him in such a crowd shakes Yahaba more than he would care to admit; there are far more unsavory deities than Futakuchi that might have taken a much darker interest in learning about Kyoken. 

Reaching out, Yahaba tugs Kyoken closer to him by the sleeve, ignoring the offended huff he gets in return for it. They can argue about Kyoken's need for personal space later. Yahaba escorts him away from a chuckling Futakuchi and into one of the side rooms of the massive shrine, usually used for private meetings between individual gods. "I told you to stay close to me, didn't I?"

He's yelling. It's hardly seemly behavior for a god, but he's _upset_ that Kyoken didn't listen and more than that he's scared of what might have happened to him.

"I'm fine." Kyoken snaps in response, pulling his arm out of Yahaba's grasp. "I can take care of myself."

"Not here you can't," Yahaba gestures at the air around him, eyebrows knit tightly together. "In case you haven't noticed, this isn't the world you're used to."

To his surprise, Kyoken actually _growls_ at that. It ripples in the air like thunder, and for a moment Yahaba himself is struck silent by it.

"I don't need you trying to protect me, or whatever. I'm not one of your lost little spirits.," hHe spits the words out like they burn in his mouth, and Yahaba clenches one hand into a fist. He's not used to being so angry with anyone else; not used to being disrespected and told that he isn't needed.

Worse is that Kyoken is wrong in ways that he can't understand. he does need Yahaba's protection. Or at least, he needs some kind of god watching over him.

Futakuchi's words about Kyoken not looking properly human stick out in his mind, and he leans forward slightly to examine him more closely.

He notices for the first time the tufts of dark, wiry hair behind his ears, and they way they've molded themselves slightly into points. There are small black markings around his neck, getting darker as they slide under the high collar of his kimono and down his back. Not realizing how close he's leaned until Kyoken shies away, Yahaba gives him a weak smile.

"What?" Kyoken grumbles, taking a step back. Just like that, Yahaba worries that all the progress they've made in being civil so far has been erased, and he sighs. He turns to one of the walls, tapping his fingers lightly against it and making a perfectly round disk of glass appear, the surface showing Kyoken's reflection. Yahaba can see, now that he's looking for it, the strange sharpness of his canines and the yellow of his irises.

He looks like a predator. A creature that Yahaba can't help but find strangely beautiful. Kyoken doesn't seem to think so because he examines his reflection with an intent frown before turning on Yahaba with a snarl.

"What did you do to me?" Rather than shouting, his voice this time is soft, and Yahaba decides not to comment on the hint of fear that he can hear in it. He shakes his head, not sure himself what's happened.

It stands to reason, when he thinks about it, that being separated from the mortal world for so long would have changed Kyoken. Spirits, lacking in a body, aren't subject to such things. But mortals are far more malleable, and their physical forms are more easily altered.

Yahaba isn't sure what he should say. He can't promise to change Kyoken back; he's not sure if that's something he's even able to do. He reaches a hand out, power sizzling in his fingertips, thinking that maybe he'll try when Kyoken smacks his hand away, his eyes wide. 

Silence settles thick and heavy between them. Yahaba's hand falls to his side, power receding from it as quickly as it was summoned. 

His voice, when he's able to find it again, rings unsteady. "I don't know."

Kyoken backs another step away but thankfully doesn't flee from Yahaba entirely. They are, for the moment at least, stuck with one another.

 

It's after they return from the higher planes, several days after in fact, that Yahaba thinks of a plan to try to mend relations with Kyoken. He's been determinedly hiding from Yahaba, using the other spirits as a buffer, and until this point, Yahaba has given him the space he seems to need.

In that time, he's been thinking intently, and consulting with Oikawa on ways that he might mend what the proximity to them has done to Kyoken. Unfortunately, Oikawa doesn't seem to have any answers.

Or at least, none that Yahaba can make use of. Even Iwaizumi, the mortal that Oikawa blessed into being the head of his household, looks far more fierce than any mortal normally would. Oikawa can't seem to recall the pace of the changes that happened, only that one day he looked at Iwaizumi and realized he was entirely different.

It's the price mortals pay, it seems, for being god-touched. Each day that Yahaba catches small glimpses of Kyoken around the manor, he looks more and more like one of the forest beasts that Yahaba cares for.

His plan, the small tatters of it that he still has, first requires he corner Kyoken. This is easier said than done; unlike one of his spirits, Yahaba can't sense where Kyoken is and is forced to search about the manor until he finds him.

It's made more challenging by the fact that Kyoken has his heart set on _avoiding_ Yahaba at all costs. Eventually, Tadashi takes mercy on him, giving Yahaba a small wave and a close-mouthed smile, standing outside of the bathhouse. He neglects to mention that Kyoken is likely still bathing inside, though the show of skin doesn’t bother Yahaba any. Nonetheless, it startles Kyoken, who is standing nude, waist deep in warm water, with his back facing the door when Yahaba lets himself in.

He turns at the sound of the door opening and closing, his mouth gaping open like that of a hooked fish. Yahaba notes with some interest that the dark marks on his skin have spread across his body, forming abstract patterns in his skin. He doesn’t get the chance to examine them more closely, because Kyoken whips around and sinks into the water until Yahaba can see nothing more than his nose and his glowering eyes. He stifles a laugh in the draping sleeve of his kimono. “You’re looking more like a little godling by the day.”

He can hardly keep the amusement out of his voice, even as Kyoken keeps trying to glare holes straight through him. Yahaba shrugs it off, gesturing toward the door instead. “Come on out. I’ve had enough of you avoiding me.”

“I haven’t,” Kyoken finally responds, his grumble casting bubbles across the surface of the water. Despite himself, despite the fact that he should be above it, Yahaba rolls his eyes.

“I have something to show you.” Again, his excitement bleeds over in his words, and in the twitching of his tail behind him. They have some time, Yahaba thinks, but not much. With the pointed tips of his ears stained pink, Kyoken walks quickly out of the water, his eyes averted from Yahaba. He seems put out by Yahaba staring at him, turning his back as he puts his kimono back on without help. Yahaba is about to offer, but for a moment his interest is caught by the old scars that stripe down his back.

They’re mostly faded, but they criss-cross over each other, and the way the pale tissue stands out from his muscled back makes Yahaba think that they must have been terrible welts at some point. He’s surprised that the sight of them makes him _angry_ , and without thinking he closes the small space between them. His fingers trace over the largest scar, erasing it with the merest thought, and Kyoken jerks around, his eyes wide. “W- what are you doing?”

“Your back.” Yahaba doesn’t quite know how to explain. He should have asked first, perhaps? He clears his throat. “I thought I might remove those scars for you.”

“Don’t.” Kyoken catches Yahaba’s wrist in one strong hand, shoving the god’s fingers away from him. “I don’t want you messing with me anymore.”

Yahaba hesitates, uncertain how to respond. The idea that Kyoken could actually cause any damage to him is laughable, of course, but that’s not what stops him. He lowers his hand slowly, and Kyoken releases the grip on his wrist. “I’m not—”

Kyoken huffs an annoyed sound, almost a snarl, between his teeth and Yahaba sighs. “I’d like to show you something.”

Immediately, Kyoken frowns, like anything that Yahaba has to offer exists solely to trap him. Yahaba, not to be deterred, gestures for him to finish getting dressed. “Don’t be so skeptical. You’ll enjoy this.”

Once Kyoken is properly clothed once more, Yahaba takes hold of his hands, and with barely more than a thought he blinks them across the barrier to the mortal realm, though not to anything that Kyoken might have seen in his time there. Yahaba keeps firm hold of his hand as the two of them hover a few feet over a thick canopy of trees, watching a front of thick gray clouds roll ever closer.

Kyoken flails for a moment, though Yahaba refuses to let go of him, looking around with wild eyes. “What is this?”

“Watch,” Yahaba instructs before closing his eyes. He directs his attention toward the storm, shaping it, calling it closer. He doesn’t add any strength, but as the wind blows through the trees beneath them, shaking their freshly budded leaves, Kyoken slowly smiles.

“It’s warm.” He reaches his free hand out slowly, catching the first fat drops of rain that plummet to the ground. One smacks against his palm, leaving a wet spot behind that he lifts to examine more closely. It’s true, both the rain and the wind are warm, and as the clouds roll overhead, Kyoken cranes his neck back to examine them. “You can do that?”

Yahaba inclines his head before turning his face up toward the welcoming rain as well. Unlike most things in the mortal realm, it doesn’t pass straight through him, but instead wets his face and his hair, soaking through his clothing as well. The warm drops feel good against his body, cleansing and pure, leaving him feeling like he’s been scrubbed clean and covered in new skin.

Kyoken throws his head back all the way, laughing, and for a reason he doesn’t understand, Yahaba feels a lump in his throat.

He wonders if this is how Oikawa must have felt, seeing Iwaizumi fighting on a battlefield—Yahaba is struck by the sense that there’s something special about Kyoken, some extra light to his spirit that he couldn’t bear to see snuffed out of the world. It strikes a greedy urge in Yahaba, flickering in his chest like a match against the wind.

He means to keep Kyoken all to himself.

 

Perhaps, just to know that his selfishness isn’t out of line, Yahaba can’t stop the question that slips from his lips as the rain passes over them. “Do you miss it?”

Kyoken stares at him oddly for a moment, his head tilting slightly to the side like he’s thinking very hard about the question. He looks down, over the thick forest they emerged from, to the village that rests on a not too distant hill. Yahaba doesn’t know if it’s the one that tried to sacrifice Kyoken to him or not, and he’s not sure that Kyoken knows either.

After what seems far too long a moment, he finally seems to come up with an answer. “I don’t know.”

Already, Yahaba isn’t hearing what he was expecting. Kyoken’s tone is wistful, a little soft, and something heavy sinks Yahaba’s stomach towards his feet. He seems to realize, perhaps Yahaba is frowning more than he means to, that he hasn’t said the right thing. “It’s… different. I’ve never experienced anything like this.”

“Like what?” Yahaba leans forward, trying to relax his face into something neutral. It must come off as being cold, because Kyoken clears his throat, looking away awkwardly.

“Like you,” his voice is so soft that Yahaba almost doubts his own ears. Kyoken, after a long moment, lifts his head to stare at Yahaba more directly. “I haven’t really met many people that actually want me around.”

Kyoken says it with a wry smile on his face, but the thought immediately makes Yahaba angry. There’s another stir in the wind around them, building with his frustrations. He doesn’t know quite how to put the emotion into words, but he finds suddenly that he would like to burn the village that tried to sacrifice Kyoken, to begin with.

“I can make them pay,” it’s out of Yahaba’s mouth before he even thinks about it, and there’s a flash of lightning in the air behind him, adding gravity to his words. Kyoken jerks slightly, looking surprised, and his hand almost slips away from Yahaba’s. Yahaba reaches, gathering Kyoken’s other hand in his and clutching them both in the air between them. “They tried to kill you when they thought I was angry. I can show them what my anger is _really_ like.”

Yahaba can see his own face reflected in the yellow of Kyoken’s eyes, the startling wideness of his own eyes, the way the flashes of lightning cast shadows over his cheeks. He feels powerful, too eddied in his own emotions to recognize the way Kyoken tries to jerk his hands back, his head shaking from side to side. “They were scared. It wasn’t anything personal.”

“It takes blood to appease an angry god,” Yahaba can taste the wickedness of his own smile, and without thinking, his tongue flicks out to drag along his lower lip.

“Stop that,” Kyoken shoves him away now, and this time Yahaba does release both hands. For a moment, Kyoken’s body wobbles uncertainly in the air, but Yahaba reaches out to grab hold of him quickly, steadying him once more. “You don’t have to do anything!”

“They should pay!” Yahaba shakes his head, finding that for once his anger isn’t so easily let go of. “What if they try to sacrifice someone else?”

“There’s no reason for them to do that,” Kyoken shakes his head, but now he refuses to look Yahaba in the face. “What’s with you?”

Yahaba opens his mouth to reply, only to find he’s not sure what the answer even is. There’s a storm gathering, a true one, with black clouds blotting out the light above them like spilled ink. “They deserve it.”

The strike of Kyoken’s fist across his jaw doesn’t hurt, of course. It’s barely a sensation that Yahaba registers until he finds himself staring as Kyoken cradles his fist, panting out hard, angry breaths. His pupils have contracted into slits, though Yahaba doubts he himself has noticed it, and he shakes his head. “You’re an idiot.”

He doesn’t give Yahaba the chance to respond, turning and storming his way through the forest instead. The sky above them cracks open, pouring hard, cold rain straight through the trees. It soaks Yahaba to the bone, and by the time he makes up his mind to follow after Kyoken, he realizes he doesn’t know where the mortal might have gone.

For a long time after, Yahaba stands and lets the rain wash him clean.


End file.
